Thin Blue Flame
by Integrandia
Summary: A collection of shorts tracing Hawke and Anders as they grow up to become the characters we know in the games.
1. Chapter 1

~—~

"_...And the whole world was looking to get drowned_

_Trees were a fist shaking themselves at the clouds_

_I looked over curtains and it was then that I knew_

_Only a full house gonna make it through..."_

_ -Josh Ritter, "Thin Blue Flame"_

_~—~_

9:13 Dragon

~—~

_Ferelden_

Malcolm Hawke opened the door that divided the shack he currently called a home into two rooms. He moved quickly from the bedroom into the slightly larger living area. He went to the basin to wash blood from his hands and wrists. Then he turned to his daughter, curled on her little cot, fast asleep.

He crouched beside the girl. Gently, he rubbed her back. "Sarai, dear heart, wake up."

"Hm?" The toddler sat up and rubbed her eyes.

"Don't you want to meet the babies?"

Sleep vanished from her face and she nodded eagerly. "Yeah! I wanna meet da babies!"

With a wide grin, he scooped her up and carried her into the bedroom. Leandra, his wife and her mother, was lying in the bed, skin shiny with sweat. She cradled a tiny form in each arm. Her expression was tired but happy.

"Mama," the girl said, reaching out her arms.

"Mama can't hold you right now. She's holding the babies. Your brother and sister."

"Babies?"

"That's right. Look, that's Carver, and that's Bethany." Malcolm squatted down so his eldest could have a closer look at the newborns. "Now, Sarai, I want to tell you something very important. You're a big sister now."

"Big fifter?" she asked.

"That's right, big sister. That means it's your job to look after your baby brother and baby sister. You have to take care of them."

"Malcom," Leandra said softly as a shadow darkened her features. "Don't. She's too young for this."

"I'm a big girl!" Sarai protested.

Malcolm nodded. "I know you are. That's why you have to promise to always protect Carver and Bethany. Okay?"

"Okay!"

"That's my good girl. Now let's put you back to bed, hm?"

~—~

_Anderfels_

The boy was the middle child, three of five, and he was a disappointment to his father. His father had never said as much, but he didn't have to. Unlike his two older brothers, and even his younger siblings, the third boy was soft. He had no fondness for working with his hands, and he hated to get dirty. For a family struggling to scrape an existence out of the Blight-cursed earth, he was a liability.

The boy didn't mind being a disappointment to his father, most times. It only bothered him when the man had been drinking and would smack him out of the way, or kick him if he got underfoot. The boy didn't mind, though, because he knew he was his mother's favorite. She had never said as much, either, but she didn't have to. She coddled him. She slipped him extra bits of food when her husband wasn't looking. When he had bad dreams, she held him close and stroked his hair.

On his eighth birthday, she gave him an embroidered pillow, whispering, "Now, _liebling_, don't let your brothers take this away from you. It's your gift."

The older boys had teased him, of course. When teasing lost its appeal, they tried to grab the pillow out of his hands. He clutched it tightly, wrapping his whole thin body around the gift. His brothers kicked him a few times, then left to seek another source of entertainment. He crawled over to his thin mattress and let the pillow soak up his tears. He wished, with the fervor only a child can muster, that he had no siblings.

~—~

[**Author's Note**: This is a prequel to my other stories (find them through my profile if you're interested), with the same Hawke character, but it will stand on its own if you haven't read them. A few comments about the story:

I was partly inspired by the song "Thin Blue Flame" by Josh Ritter - hence the title. I highly recommend you go listen to some Josh Ritter immediately.

In my personal continuity, I'm assuming Hawke is about three years older than Bethany and Carver, and that Anders is about five years older than Hawke.

I'm also assuming that the Anderfels is loosely based on medieval Germany, so I'm going to throw a few German words and phrases in. I do not actually speak German. Please correct me if I mess something up.]


	2. Chapter 2

~—~

"..._ The straight of the highway and the scattered out hearts_

_They were coming together, they were pulling apart_

_And angels everywhere were in my midst_

_In the ones that I loved, in the ones that I kissed..."_

_ -Josh Ritter, "Thin Blue Flame"_

~—~

9:16 Dragon

~—~

_Ferelden_

"I'm telling you, this is no way to raise a family!" Leandra hissed, trying to keep her voice down. She didn't realize her eldest was awake in the next room, or how thin the walls of the shack were.

Sarai strained her ears, trying to hear what her parents were saying. She wanted to tiptoe over to the door so she could hear more clearly. But Bethany was snuggled up next to her and Carver was just a few inches away, and she knew it would be wrong to wake them up.

Her father's voice came through the wall, a soft murmur in which she could distinguish no words. It was a soothing, comforting sound, one that had lulled her to sleep many times.

Then her mother's voice again, tight with emotion. "You know that's not it! I promised you I would follow you anywhere. But we can't raise three children in this—place. Something has to change, Malcolm!"

Another gentle murmur, then quiet. Sarai tried to stay awake, to see if her parents would say anything else, but sleep soon overtook her.

A few weeks after that late-night conversation, Malcolm sold their milk-goat and bought a wheezy old donkey and some saddlebags. He packed up their meager possessions while Leandra bundled the children up.

Bethany, always an anxious baby, observed the proceedings with increasingly teary eyes. Carver picked up on his sister's mood and began to whimper.

"Shh-h-h," Sarai said, hoisting her brother up on her hip the way their mother did. "Don't cry, Carver. Papa says we're going on a trip!"

"That's right," Malcolm said with a smile that almost reached his eyes. "It'll be an adventure. Everybody likes adventure, right?"

"I do!" Sarai asserted. Not to be outdone, little Carver nodded vigorously. Even Bethany looked up at them, wide-eyed with interest.

"All right, then, everything's ready," Malcolm told his wife. "Time to go."

So the family set out in search of a new home. They followed the old Imperial highways, avoiding large settlements, staying a few days at a time in backwater inns, looking for a place they could settle.

~—~

_Anderfels_

Magic came late to the boy. The first time he used magic, he didn't even realize it. It was only later, reflecting back on the occasion, that he realized he was the one who caused that storm.

His brothers were teasing him again. It was haymaking season, and his father was in the fields gathering the dry hay into bales. The children were supposed to be hauling the bales back to the shed. He was trying to do as his father had told him, but the bale was too big for him to lift. He struggled and grunted, dragging it along the ground. The bale began to disintegrate, shedding hay everywhere.

"Stop! _Oberasrch!_ You're wrecking it!" shouted one of his brothers.

The other children looked up to see what he was doing wrong. "_Du bist doch dumm wie Brot_," laughed one cruelly. The others laughed as well, throwing their own insults and, after a moment, rocks.

The boy clenched his little hands into fists, squeezing his eyes shut to keep the tears from escaping. Overhead, dark clouds began to swirl.

"_Scheisse_," their father swore. "Not rain!"

There was a tremendous crack, and the children screamed. The boy opened his eyes in shock: lightning had struck his broken hay bale, just inches from where he stood. His blond hair was floating around his face from the energy in the air. A few tiny sparks darted between his fingers.

His siblings backed away from him. At an unspoken signal, they turned and ran.

~—~


	3. Chapter 3

~—~

"..._In darkness he looks for the light that has died_

_But you need faith for the same reasons that it's so hard to find_

_And this whole thing is headed for a terrible wreck_

_And like good tragedy that's what we expect..."_

_ -Josh Ritter, "Thin Blue Flame"_

~—~

9:17 Dragon

~—~

Anderfels

The second time the boy used magic, there was no denying it. No escaping it.

He watched in shock and growing horror as the barn burned around him. Coughing against the smoke, he raced for the door. The heat blazed against his pale skin from the burning wood falling around him.

The others had already gone for their father. The man rushed out, roaring in fury and despair at the sight of the barn. Then he spun, looking for the culprit. He saw the boy and seized him by the arm, pulling him off his feet.

"I didn't mean to!" gasped the boy, tears running down his face. "It was an accident!"

"_Verdammt_, boy! What did you do?"

"He lit the fire!" shrieked the younger sister. "I saw it!"

He shook the boy fiercely. "_What did you do?_" he screamed again.

The boy didn't know. He had been hiding in the barn, enjoying the peace and quiet, until his siblings had found him there. His brothers had taken up the sharp-pointed hay forks and pantomimed stabbing him with them. Angry, he had thrown himself at them, but they easily dumped him on the floor. He had snarled in frustration and impatience and the desperate feeling of being fed up with it all, and then there had been fire in his hands and he had thrown it away in surprise.

The story tumbled out of the accusing mouths of the others, until his father had realized what it meant. Then the boy saw something he had never seen before: fear in his father's eyes. He dropped his son abruptly.

Looking at the ruined barn, the fear turned quickly back to anger, and the man removed his belt.

"No, no! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to! Please, don't—"

The first blow landed across the boy's upstretched arms. He fell, curling up to protect himself, as blows continued to fall across his shoulders and back.

"Go to the town," he heard his father snap over the blood rushing in his ears. "Get the Templars."

~—~

_Ferelden_

The children laughed, running and tumbling down the grassy hill. When they reached the bottom, Sarai turned and yelled back up to her parents, "We wanna stay _here!_"

Malcolm and Leandra smiled. They were on the outskirts of Lothering, a moderately sized city in the heart of Ferelden—crossroads between Denerim and Redcliffe and the old Imperial Highway that traced Lake Calenhad. There was a Chantry and a few Templars, but the city didn't attract much attention. It was quiet, peaceful.

"The merchants I talked to said there's a little cottage on the outskirts of the city that's abandoned. It wouldn't be hard to claim it and fix it up," Malcolm told his wife.

"A real home?" Leandra asked.

"A real home," he promised. "No more shacks. No more taverns."

Leandra gave a happy sigh. "That's all I ask—a place we can call home."

At the bottom of the hill, Bethany threw her arms around her sister's neck and let the older girl carry her around piggy-backed. Giggling, Sarai charged back up the hill, collapsing breathless at her parents' feet.

"Papa," she gasped, "Can we please stay? Please?"

"Would you like to come here to play every day?" Leandra asked the girls.

"Yeah!" Bethany yelled.

"I think that settles it," Malcolm said. He swept an exaggerated bow. "My beautiful ladies, we can stay."

~—~

_Anderfels_

That night, the boy huddled against the wood pile for warmth, whimpering whenever a pebble or piece of wood rubbed against his sore back. His father had refused to let him into the house, had refused even to look at him. The Templars would be coming for him in the morning, he'd said.

The boy didn't know what that meant. He had seen Templars once before, marching through with their silver armor and their cold faces. He had a vague sense that Templars had something to do with mages, but he had never seen a mage or even heard of one outside of children's fantastical stories. Why would Templars be coming for him?

Deep within him, the awful truth was beginning to come to light. Before he was forced to look at it directly, though, a crashing sound from inside distracted his thoughts.

His father was drunk and screaming. "You whore! There's no mage blood in _my_ family. Where'd it come from then, huh? Did you fuck some Maker-cursed monster? Did you?"

Less distinctly, the boy heard his mother's shaking voice, trying to placate her husband. Then another crash, and she came tumbling out the door into the chill night air.

She stepped cautiously around the house, looking for him. When she spotted him by the wood pile, she knelt beside him and pulled him into her arms. When he began to cry, she shushed him and smoothed his blond hair. He fell asleep as she rocked him back and forth.

The morning sun brought the Templars tramping down the road. Still half-asleep, the boy saw his father came out of the house to meet them, pointing wordlessly.

Then they were grabbing his arms and pulling him away from his mother, and she was crying, sobbing frantically. He felt cold metal close around his wrists as he looked up at the Templars in confusion. He cried out, trying to run back to his mother, wanting to curl up in her arms again, but they were dragging him down the road.

"Why?" he wailed, uncomprehending. "_Why?_"

~—~


	4. Chapter 4

~—~

"..._I became a thin blue flame_

_Polished on a mountain range_

_And over hills and fields I flew_

_Wrapped up in a royal blue..."_

_ -Josh Ritter, "Thin Blue Flame"_

~—~

9:17 Dragon

~—~

_Ferelden_

The journey had taken months. When the Templars had taken him, dragged him out of his mother's arms—she had chased after them, until finally the Templars let her push that little embroidered pillow into his hands. They had shoved her away before she could embrace him a final time. Then they had set off down the road, neither looking back nor looking down at the crying child they supported between them.

From the farm, the tiny world he had known, they had traveled for what seemed like an eternity. He found it hard to believe that it was possible to walk so far and not run out of ground to tread. Not only had they walked; they had ridden horses, him sitting in front of one of the Templars, for days and weeks and finally he could not remember how long it had been.

The weather grew warmer and the land grew greener. He saw strange people with darker skin and angled eyes, and they spoke languages he had never heard before. They came to a city—a city!—with so many people and sounds and smells and buildings and statues, his mind had reeled.

In the city, the Templars who had taken him met with other Templars, many more of them. He had been passed to a new pair of Templars like a sheep's skin trading hands—except none of the Templars seemed to be eager to take on this cargo. He clutched his pillow and watched them with wide, fearful eyes. The new Templars did not speak Anders, which meant that sharp commands degenerated into simple gestures. His throat grew thick from lack of talking.

They took him to another city, less overwhelming than the first, and the air smelled strange and salty. When he saw the sea, he gaped—who could imagine so much water? And wooden houses floating on it! When they tried to lead him onto one of the impossible floating houses, he had blanched. He was certain it would dip under the water and disappear if he put his weight on it. Angry, one Templar grabbed him around his waist and carried him onto the structure.

The time on the floating house was even more miserable than what had come before. It moved constantly. Between the fear that he would be swallowed up by the endless water and the unending motion of the floor under his feet, he found himself spending the journey with his head in a bucket. The Templars watched him with distaste, but they never left or even looked away.

Finally, he found himself on land again, and he wept with relief even as the Templars hoisted him up into a saddle to ride. He began to suspect that they would never stop, and that the duty of a Templar was to travel the world ceaselessly. Perhaps Andraste had commanded it. Perhaps she had dictated that boys who burned down barns would be sentenced to this unending punishment.

When he saw the Tower in the distance, something in him told him he had been wrong.

~—~

_Lothering_

The family had been in Lothering a few months now. Less and less often, the citizens gave them the cold stares that marked them as outsiders. Malcolm was earning a reputation as a capable herbalist. They kept a garden, traded in the town, went to the Chantry when it was expected and no more frequently than that.

One day, as they were leaving the service, Sarai eyed the Templars stationed outside. They were relaxed, and they laughed when one of their own made a joke.

"Papa," Sarai said. "What do Templars do?"

From where she was standing with the twins, Leandra looked over sharply, but Malcolm's voice was level as he responded. "Templars are soldiers for the Chantry." He took his daughter's hand and began to steer her towards the edge of town.

"But what do they _do_ all day?"

"I think the Templars here in Lothering stand around outside the Chantry," he answered with a hint of humor. "They are keeping watch, I suppose."

"For what?"

"Don't pester your father," Leandra scolded.

"But I want to know! What are they keeping watch for?"

Malcolm let out the tinest of sighs before he responded. "They are keeping watch for threats to the Chantry—for rogue mages. They call them apostates."

Sarai thought about this for some time. "Have _you_ ever seen a mage, Papa?"

He laughed at that. "No, my dear. I have never seen a mage. The Chantry doesn't let mages wander around Thedas. They're kept in Circles of Magi, watched over by Templars."

"Why?"

"According to the Chantry, magic is dangerous. Mages have to be kept in the Circles to protect the rest of us from them... and to protect them from the rest of us."

"Oh," Sarai said. "Did you see the Templars all have swords? _I_ want a sword!"

~—~

_Kinloch Hold_

"Did you see the new apprentice?" the enchanter asked his fellow as he passed him a cup of tea.

"Yes, he just came in last night. He's an Anders, I heard. Doesn't speak a lick of Common."

"Why'd they send him _here_, then?"

"Apparently, the Circle in the Anderfels is full up. They didn't want him."

"And we do? I don't know how we're supposed to teach him if he doesn't even understand the language."

"He's old, too, to be coming to the Tower. He'll have to start in classes with apprentices half his age."

"Now, that's enough," a third enchanter interrupted. Her eyes were serious as she continued, "Honestly, don't you have anything better to do than gossip?"

"Wynne, if we didn't gossip, we'd run out of things to fill the hours of the day."

"Perhaps you should be more concerned with your own learning than with an apprentice's," she replied coolly. "Aren't you supposed to be in the library?"

Grumbling, the two junior enchanters stood and left the dining hall. Wynne watched them go before standing to leave herself. She had seen the boy arrive the night before, his face pale with terror. The Templars who had brought him said he'd been seasick all the way from Cumberland; they seemed eager to be rid of him.

She felt a pang of compassion for the boy. She resolved to see if she could help him, and set off for the First Enchanter's rooms to see what could be done.

The door was open, but she rapped gently on the doorframe to announce herself. "Irving? May I have a word?"

"Here about the new apprentice, are you, Wynne?" Irving said, looking up from his desk.

She smiled. "Am I that predictable?"

"When it comes to hopeless cases, yes. Come in." Irving gestured to the chair across from him.

Wynne sat. "Well, if you already know why I'm here, I'll go straight to the point. How is the boy?"

"As miserable as they all are when they arrive, and unable to communicate as well."

"So he doesn't speak any Common?"

"No. From what we could gather, he was a farm boy in the Anderfels. Doesn't speak Common, almost certainly illiterate, probably never saw beyond his own family's land until the Templars brought him here."

Wynne shook her head. "I can't imagine why the Templars thought it would be a good idea to bring him here. Do you mind if I try to get through to him?"

"Be my guest. He's down in the apprentices' dorm now."

Wynne made her way down to the dormitories. The apprentices were in their classes, but the newest arrival was curled up on the bunk he had been assigned, clutching a little embroidered pillow. He watched her with wide eyes as she knelt next to the bed.

"Hello," she said soothingly. "I know you can't understand me, but my name is Wynne." She pointed to herself and repeated her name. "Welcome to the Circle Tower. You don't have to be frightened." Keeping her voice calm and even, she reached out to touch the boy's shoulder.

He jerked away sharply. He wanted nothing to do with this woman who was not his mother but was trying to act like her. He buried his face in the pillow to make her go away.

Wynne sighed. It was going to take time, she could tell. She stood, watching him for a moment. When he did not move or look at her, she smoothed out her robes and went to find him something to eat.

~—~


	5. Chapter 5

~—~

9:18 Dragon

~—~

_Lothering_

A shrill scream cut through the still winter air. At the table where he was bundling dried herbs, Malcolm surged to his feet and exchanged a fearful glance with his wife.

"That was Sarai," she said, voice strained.

He rushed out of their house and through the vegetable garden. Leandra followed close behind him.

Sarai was coming towards them as quickly as she could. Her pace was slowed by the dead weight of her brother in her arms, and her hysterical sister pulling on her tunic.

"Papa!" she shrieked. "Papa, _help_!"

Malcolm lengthened his stride to close the distance between him and his children, scooping Carver out of Sarai's arms and assessing the situation. A long gash ran down the boy's leg, and blood was dripping off his bare heel. His face and chest were criss-crossed with burns.

"Maker," Malcolm breathed.

Leandra caught up to her husband. When she saw Carver, she gasped. "Andraste preserve us..." She looked at Malcolm anxiously. "Malcolm, you have to do something. You have to—"

"I know," he said sharply. "Everyone, get inside."

He rushed back into the house, clearing the table with a sweep of one arm. Then he gently laid Carver down. "Close the door," he ordered. "And the shutters."

Leandra hurried to do as he said. Sarai stood in the corner, eyes wide with shock. Bethany clutched her leg and sobbed.

"Tell me what happened," Malcolm said to Sarai.

She began to answer, but stopped short when an orange glow came out of her father's hands and began to suffuse Carver's still body.

"Sarai." Malcolm said, his voice level. "I need to know what happened. It's very important."

"What... What _is_ that?" she whispered.

"There will be time enough for that later," Leandra insisted. "Answer your father."

Sarai took a shuddering breath. "We were playing down by the stream. We found a cave in the rocks and wanted to explore it. But there were these huge spiders inside. One of them, it grabbed Carver by the leg," her voice hiccuped and her eyes filled with tears. "And then I tried to make it let go, and then Bethy _did_ something and there was lightning _everywhere_."

Malcolm suddenly grew very still. The only sound in the room was Bethany's muffled crying.

"Papa," Sarai said, sensing the tension. "Bethy didn't mean to hurt Carver, I know she didn't, it was only an accident—"

"I know that," he replied. He managed a tight smile. "I know. You were both trying to protect your brother." Then he turned his attention back to Carver and the glow that was filling the air between them.

Sarai watched as the gash on her brother's leg sealed itself smoothly from ankle to knee. She stepped forward, awed at the clean unblemished skin. By the time the burns were evaporating from his torso, her chin was on the edge of the table.

Finally, Malcolm stepped back, his face sagging with exhaustion. He collapsed into a chair as Carver's eyes opened.

"How did you do that?" Sarai gasped.

~—~

_Kinloch Hold_

He spent the first few months in a lonely haze. They made him go to classes with the other apprentices—most of them far younger than he—and he sat in the back as the foreign language washed over him. A few of the other mages gave him sympathetic looks or shy smiles, but most of them ignored him.

The lady enchanter who had visited him when he first arrived seemed to follow him around the Tower. He did his best to avoid her. She had no reason to show him affection. It seemed somehow an affront to his memories of his mother.

Finally, he began to comprehend the language of the Tower. The first word he recognized was _Anders_. It was the word they used for him, the name they had given him in the absence of any other. He didn't correct them; they didn't show any interest in knowing his real name, in any case.

Once he began to learn Common, new words flooded into his vocabulary. He could understand the conversations in the dining hall and the instruction of the enchanters. Once they realized he knew what they were saying, the enchanters started to expect him to participate in the classes. They wanted to test his magical abilities and assign him reading.

Ashamed to admit that he didn't know how to read, he tried skipping the classes. His plan lasted all of half a morning; the Templars found him under his bunk in the dormitory and dragged him up to the classroom.

That night, during the free hours before the mages were expected to be in bed, a junior enchanter approached him in the dormitory.

"You're Anders, aren't you?"

He looked up at the enchanter: a youngish man, perhaps thirty. He had wild dark hair and steely eyes, but his expression was gentle. The boy nodded silently and turned away again.

The enchanter took a seat on the bunk opposite his. They sat in silence for several minutes, as other mages chatted around them, or read, or prepared for sleep.

"I'm Karl," the enchanter finally said. "I can teach you to read."

He looked up sharply. "How do you know about that?"

"It doesn't matter. The important thing is, I can help you."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would you help me?"

Karl seemed to consider the question. "Because you can't survive here in the Tower without help from someone."

The boy met Karl's eyes, surprised, and nodded slowly.

~—~

_Lothering_

"Papa, how did you _do_ that?" Sarai repeated. Carver slowly sat up, rubbing his eyes and looking around in confusion.

Malcolm let his eyes scan over his children, then looked at Leandra. His face was shadowed with weariness and something else, something Sarai couldn't identify. Sadness? Anger?

"Come here," Leandra said as she took a seat at the table. "All three of you, come sit with me."

Sarai dutifully took the seat next to her mother, pulling Bethany into her lap. Carver clambered down from the table, apparently no worse for wear from his spider encounter.

"There's something... something your father and I haven't told you," she began.

"No," Malcolm said, leaning forward in his seat. "I should be the one to tell them." His children all turned their expectant eyes to him, and he sighed heavily. "Sarai, Bethany, Carver—the truth is, I'm a mage."

Sarai's eyes widened. "But you said—"

"I know, my dear. I haven't been honest with you. I had hoped... I had hoped it would not be necessary to tell you. Now I see that was naïve of me." He looked down at his hands. "Sarai, you remember what I said about the Templars?"

"You said they watch out for mages and keep them in some circle place."

"That's right. And I'm exactly who the Templars are looking for—a mage living in the world. An apostate. If they knew I was a mage, they would take me away." He looked at his children seriously. "This is something you must keep absolutely secret. You must never speak of it, _never_. Do you understand?"

They all nodded, stunned. "What about Bethany?" said Leandra quietly, gently.

Malcolm swept his hands through his hair, face turned down. "Maker," he muttered. Then he looked at Bethany, reaching out to catch her chin in his hand. "Bethy, my darling, you made that lightning happen in the cave, didn't you?"

Her eyes welled up with fresh tears.

"Shh, it's okay. You wanted to help Carver, right?" Bethany stuck out her trembling lower lip, but nodded. "That means you're a mage, too."

Leandra let out a strangled sob. "I'm sorry, Malcolm, I—I'm sorry," she repeated, standing abruptly and rushing out of the house.

Bethany began to cry. Malcolm lifted her out of Sarai's lap and into his own, wrapping his arms around her. "Don't cry, dear. Being a mage is a gift, not a curse. Did you see how I healed your brother's leg?" A hesitant nod. "I can teach you how to do that. Do you want to learn how?"

"Okay."

"All right, then." Malcolm looked over Bethany's dark curls to his eldest daughter. "You have to protect her, Sarai. The Templars must never know about her. Promise me."

Sarai stared at her father. "I promise."

~—~

[**Author's Note**: I thought long and hard about how I wanted to write Karl. Although I'm going to take this in a different direction, I was definitely inspired by the awesome Karl/Anders stories by Combination-NC. I hope you all appreciate where it goes! Thanks as always for the reviews.]


	6. Chapter 6

~—~

9:18 Dragon

~—~

_Lothering_

Sarai crept out of the bedroom she shared with Bethany into the main room of the house. It was late, and the fire had burned low, but she found her father sitting at the table, grinding and mixing herbs to make potions. A row of clean vials were laid out in front of him, stoppers off to one side.

"Papa?" she whispered.

"Can't sleep?" he replied, looking over with a tired smile.

She shook her head. "Can I help?"

He motioned at the chair next to him. "Do you remember how I showed you to crush the herbs? You can use the mortar and pestle, I'll measure the ingredients and combine them."

They sat in peaceful silence for a while. Sarai took the herbs her father gave her, carefully ground them to a fine powder, and passed them back to him. Her brow creased in concentration.

"Papa," she said finally. "What's the Circle?"

"Hm?"

"You said the Templars kept mages in the Circle. So what's the Circle?"

He sighed. "There are many Circles of Magi, across Thedas. The one in Ferelden is in Kinloch Hold, an ancient Tower from long ago. The mages live there, learn to use magic, and the Templars watch over them."

"Have you ever been there?"

"Not to the Tower, no." He was quiet for a moment, then continued softly, "I was in a different Circle."

"You were?" she exclaimed, then guiltily lowered her voice. "Where? How come you never said anything about it?"

"I was in a place called the Gallows. In a city called Kirkwall. It was... very bad there."

"So you ran away?"

"Yes," he said quietly. "I ran away."

~—~

_Kinloch Hold_

The first time Anders escaped, it was practically an accident. Not that anyone would have believed it.

It was a bright shining morning, the first of the spring, and the Templars let the apprentices out of the Tower to enjoy a few hours of fresh air by the lakeside.

Anders had never spent a day of his life inside before he was taken to the Tower. When he felt the sun on his skin, took a deep breath of the cool air, heard the water lapping on the shore, something was set loose inside of him.

With a whoop of happiness, he kicked off his boots (he still preferred them to the thin slippers the rest of the mages wore) and leapt into the lake. He saw the far shore in the distance and set out for it, thrilling in the cold water as he stretched his arms.

Vaguely, he heard the sounds of shouting coming from the Tower behind him. He glanced backwards and saw Templars climbing into the ferry to come after him. With a grin, he sped up. When he reached the far shore, he stood dripping and panting on the bank.

He laughed when the Templars reached him, looking up at them, expecting them to share the joke.

Their faces were cold as they grabbed his arms roughly and led him onto the ferry. The laughter died on his lips.

The other apprentices gaped as the Templars dragged him past them and into the Tower. They took him directly to the Knight-Commander's office. Greagoir was sitting at his desk, but looked up when they entered.

"Ser, this one just tried to escape."

Anders' head whipped up in shock. "Escape? I wasn't trying to escape! I just wanted to—"

The other Templar cuffed him on the back of the head. "You keep quiet unless the Knight-Commander gives you permission to speak."

Greagoir held up a hand. "That's enough. Give me the report."

The Templar who had first spoken took a step forward. "Ser, the apprentices were having a free morning out in the courtyard. This boy jumped into the lake and swam to shore. We took the ferry across and retrieved him."

Greagoir nodded once and turned to the boy. "Anders, is it? I'm aware you have not been here in the Circle long. You know, however, that we have rules—rules to protect mages, and to protect the people of Thedas from mages. Any violation must be taken very seriously."

"I didn't mean anything!" Anders protested.

"I am inclined to believe that. However, the fact remains that you left the Circle as an apprentice and without permission. There are consequences for your actions." He looked up at the Templars who had brought Anders. "Three days in solitary. Regular meals."

Anders barely had time to wonder what the Knight-Commander's words meant before he was being led away again.

~—~


	7. Chapter 7

~—~

_"...If God's up there he's in a cold dark room_

_The heavenly host are just the cold dark moons_

_He bent down and made the world in seven days_

_And ever since he's been a'walking away..."_

_ -Josh Ritter, "Thin Blue Flame"_

~—~

9:18 Dragon

~—~

_Kinloch Hold_

The room was small, and dark—too dark. No windows, only the tiniest crack of light coming from under the door. Anders didn't know the word "claustrophobia," but he felt in deep in his chest as he struggled to breathe.

The first day hadn't been so bad. It was a nice break, actually, not to have to listen to enchanters or struggle to read the words in the books or endure the feeling that everyone was laughing when his back was turned. The room wasn't comfortable, with only a narrow bench to lie on and a bucket in the corner to relieve himself. But he made the best of it.

There was a Templar stationed outside the door, he gathered. At regular intervals, the door was opened, the dim light of the hallway seeming blinding after sitting in darkness for so long. The Templar would leave him a tray of food, taking away the previous meal before shutting him into the darkness again.

The second day was worse. He began to feel as though the ceiling was pressing down on him, that the whole weight of the Tower was weighing on his chest, making it hard to breathe. He lay on the floor in front of the door, curled on his side, desperately sucking the cool air that was coming through the gap under the door.

By the third day, he was finding it hard to tell whether he was awake or trapped in a nightmare. He shouted and pounded on the door, but got no response. When they brought him the noontime meal, he tried to push his way out past the guard, but the Templar shoved him back.

He remained where he fell, curling up on his side and letting hot tears burn his cheeks.

When the third day was finally over, they led him silently back to the dormitory. He stared at the ground silently, avoiding the eyes of the other mages, not wanting to see their scorn or sympathy. He crawled into his bunk, wrapped his arms around his embroidered pillow, and shut out the world.

~—~

_Lothering_

"That's the school of creation magic. You can draw on your own inner energy to repair, restore, and heal others," Malcolm told Bethany. "Do you understand?"

"Yes!" Bethany answered cheerfully, then turned away as she heard Sarai shout.

Sarai was skipping towards them, a gleeful smile on her face. "Guess what I got!" she shouted.

Malcolm smiled and rose from where he was sitting on the little bench in the garden. "What did you get?"

"These!" Sarai exclaimed as she got close, holding out two daggers.

The smile on Malcolm's face was quickly replaced with a slight frown. "Where did you get those, Sarai?"

"Some of the boys in town gave them to me. They're going to teach me to fight!"

"What?" Malcolm frowned deeper and lowered himself to one knee so he could look into his daughter's eyes. "Why would you need to fight?"

Sarai picked up on her father's displeasure and looked at her feet. "Because, well, you said I had to protect Bethy. I thought... I'd be stronger if I knew how to fight."

"Ohh, my dear heart." Malcolm pulled her into a spontaneous embrace. He didn't say more for a long time. Finally, he pulled back, putting his hands on her shoulders. "I wish I could tell you that will never be necessary. It might be, someday. But promise me you will be careful. I don't want you taking any risks. All right?"

Sarai nodded.

"And don't tell your mother, she'll have my head," he added with a chuckle.

~—~

_Kinloch Hold_

After his stay in the solitary cell, Anders was withdrawn, his face shadowed. He was even more distracted in class, even more quiet at meals and free times. He began to catalog the windows in the Tower, finding each one, finding the ones that were largest, the ones that let in the most light, the ones that were low enough to peek out.

If the lake had been his first temptation, the windows were his second. They beckoned him, sending him climbing up bookcases and wardrobes to get closer to them, to try to see the world outside the Tower.

That he would try to escape (a second time, the Templars would say) was probably inevitable. He didn't have a plan for what he would do when he got out. He just knew, when he found a window cracked open in the kitchen, that he had to go.

He climbed up onto the counter and squirmed through the gap. Behind him, he heard one of the kitchen servants gasp and the sound of running feet. He fell several feet to the ground outside, landing with an "Oof!" in a potato plant.

It was late evening, the sun fading on the horizon. The air was still warm, but Anders could smell a promise of fall in the air. He took a deep, blissful breath, feeling awake and _alive_ for the first time since the Templars had pulled him out of the cell.

He heard shouts, and he felt a swell of fear. Looking around desperately, he saw a low wall bounding the vegetable garden that served the Tower. He leapt over it and started down towards the lakeshore. There were a few shrubs and small trees there, and he scrambled on his stomach in the dirt to crawl under a large bush.

Anders huddled under the cover, shaking, as Templars marched around the side of the Tower. A few of them scanned the lake, while the others searched the garden and the shore. His lips moved in a silent prayer, hoping that they would move on.

One of the Templars looked over towards his hiding place and gave a shout. They all converged on the bush, reaching for him. He kicked out frantically, connecting with one Templar's helmet, but felt strong hands close on his wrists and pull him to his feet.

Another visit to the Knight-Commander's office followed. Frowning, Greagoir ordered a week of solitary confinement with two meals a day.

"Please," Anders begged. "Please, I don't want to go back in there. _Please_."

"If you don't like the cell, then follow the rules, Anders. We aren't doing this because we enjoy punishing you."

The Templars took him, kicking and screaming and crying and begging, back to the cell. This time, the first day was not a relaxing break. It was a nightmare, and it only got worse as the week wore on. He screamed until his voice broke, scraped his fingers against the door until the nails broke and bled, pounded his fists against the walls until he went numb.

When the week ended, and the Templars delivered him back to the dormitory, Karl was there waiting for him.

Anders stared at Karl, wild-eyed. Curious, the other mages watched the pair.

"Come with me," Karl said gently, offering Anders his hand. Hesitantly, Anders took Karl's hand and let the older mage lead him out of the dormitory.

Karl took Anders up to his own room, which afforded somewhat more privacy than the apprentice's dorm. "Sit," Karl said, indicating a chair. Anders sank into the seat, staring at his shaking hands. Karl moved quietly around the room, preparing two mugs of tea. Finally, he sat across from Anders, gently setting down a steaming mug.

"Drink up," he told the boy. Anders shook his head, not looking up. Karl regarded him for a few moments. "When was the last time you ate anything?"

After a long silence, Anders finally met Karl's eyes. "Three days." His voice was hoarse.

"Drink your tea." Karl rose, went over to a little cupboard, and brought out some cookies with a filling of fruit preserves. He laid them out on the table and took his seat again.

Slowly, Anders took the mug, breathing in the steam deeply. He took a sip.

Karl smiled.

It took an hour for Anders to drain the mug, but when he had finished, the color had returned to his face and a spark of life to his eyes. He picked up one of the cookies.

"I have been in that cell," Karl told him quietly. "I do not need to ask you what you felt."

Anders felt the breath hitch in his chest. He pushed down the feeling, the memory, of panic and nodded slightly.

"They will put you back there again."

Anders looked up at that, tears in his eyes. "I can't. I can't." He began breathing fast and shallow. "I can't go back there."

"Anders," Karl said firmly, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Do not let them break you. That's what they want, that's exactly why they do this to us."

Anders cringed, hunching his shoulders, turning inward. Karl moved his chair around the table, closer to Anders, putting an arm around him.

"I know," Karl told him. "It seems unbearably difficult. But you are a mage. You possess tremendous strength. It's our gift from the Maker."

Unexpectedly, Anders rested his head against Karl's shoulder. "How did you do it? Survive?"

"I will show you."

~—~


	8. Chapter 8

~—~

9:19 Dragon

~—~

_Kinloch Hold_

Anders looked around cautiously as he entered the dining hall. He'd been in the Tower more than a year, yet still felt very much the outsider. The language barrier had all but disappeared, but he was still the oldest of his classmates, and he suspected that his friendship with Karl was strange to them.

Some of the apprentices avoided his eyes, but one young woman was not afraid to meet his gaze when he glanced at her. Amell, he remembered; her name was Solona Amell. She was a few years younger than he, but already appeared to be blossoming into a powerful mage.

He approached the table where she sat with two friends: another human mage, named Jowan, and an elven boy whose name Anders didn't know.

"Can I sit here?" Anders asked, trying—as always—to mask his accent.

"Sure," Solona replied. "Go right ahead."

He sank onto the bench next to Jowan. Solona and the elf sat across the table.

"I'm Solona," she declared. "That's Jowan, and this is Alim." Jowan gave a half-smile as Alim nodded quietly.

"Anders," he replied, turning his attention to his food.

"So, have they tested your magic yet?" Jowan asked. After a moment, Anders realized the question was directed at him. The apprentices spent months or years learning the theory of magic before they were ever allowed to try it themselves. Eventually, when the enchanters thought they had learned enough of the basics, they would test the apprentices' magical abilities. It revealed a mage's aptitudes and particular talents, which dictated their further course of studies.

"Healing," Anders said with a grimace.

Jowan rolled his eyes in sympathy. Healing was generally considered by the apprentices to be the most boring, and therefore least desirable, area of magic.

"Huh," said Solona. "Too bad. Anything else?"

"They said I have some elemental magic, and maybe arcane. Mostly healing, though." Encouraged by the friendly eyes of the other apprentices, Anders cracked a wry smile. "I just want a hot meal and a chance to shoot lightning at fools. Is that too much to ask?"

To his surprise, the other three burst into laughter. It wasn't cruel, mocking laughter; it was genuine. They thought he was _funny_. It was a revelation.

"That was a good one!" Jowan said, chuckling and wiping tears from his eyes. "You're all right, Anders."

~—~

_Lothering_

The young man gave a rough laugh. "You're all right, pipsqueak."

Sarai scowled at the nickname, but stood her ground, trying to keep the daggers in her hands from shaking. "So you'll teach me?" she demanded.

"Sure, I'll teach you. But not for free. What are you gonna do for me?"

She disliked the implications hiding under that question. But there was no turning back now. All the Lothering kids knew that Liam was the toughest, scrappiest, meanest youth in town. She had learned all she could of knife work from the other children—if she wanted to learn more, she needed Liam.

"How old are you anyway, pipsqueak?" He looked her over with a critical eye.

"Almost ten!" she shot back.

He laughed again. "All right, then. I'll show you how to use those little bread knives, if you run some errands for me. Deal?"

She nodded grimly. "Deal."

When she limped home several hours later, muscles screaming in protest, her father was working in the garden. She could hear her siblings playing around the back of the house, and caught a glimpse of Leandra putting clothes out to dry. If she could just get inside before her mother could see her and start asking questions...

"Sarai." She jumped guiltily at her father's voice, then winced at the soreness. "What in Andraste's name have you been doing?"

She scuffed a foot in the dirt, reluctant to confess.

Her father stood, brushing dirt off his knees, and gave a sigh. "Never mind, I don't want to know. Come over here before your mother sees you."

She dutifully stepped past the gate and into the garden. Her father indicated the row he was working on, and she knelt awkwardly. As she began to pull up the weeds, her father put a hand on her back. She felt the tension and pain drain from her muscles.

A few minutes later, Leandra came around the corner of the house. "Sarai—there you are! What have you been up to?"

"I sent her to town," Malcolm told his wife. "Needed to check with the merchants about pricing. She's been helping me in the garden while you've been tending to the wash."

Leandra looked at her daughter. "Maker, what a state you're in! I don't know how you manage it."

"Pulling weeds is dirty work," Malcolm said with an easy smile.

~—~


	9. Chapter 9

~—~

"..._At night I make plans for a city laid down_

_Like the hips of a girl on the spring covered ground_

_Spirals and capitals like the twist of a script_

_Streets named for heroes that could almost exist..."_

_ -Josh Ritter, "Thin Blue Flame"_

~—~

9:19 Dragon

~—~

_Kinloch Hold_

Solona, Jowan, and Alim weren't Anders' friends, exactly, but they tolerated him. The three were close, had been for years before Anders came to the Tower. They would crack jokes and tell stories about their time together, and Anders would smile and nod and focus on his meal.

If anyone was a friend to Anders, it was Karl, but "friendship" didn't quite seem to be the right word for the relationship between apprentice and enchanter. Karl had taken Anders under his wing, seeking out the boy to help him with his reading.

He taught Anders other lessons, too—lessons about how to survive in the Tower. He never counseled Anders to follow the rules, but he did warn the boy about the consequences that would come down from the Templars for disobedience.

In hushed conversations in Karl's room, he tried to help Anders protect himself from the Tower that had become his world.

"For the Templars, all mages are the same. Always potentially dangerous, one step away from possession or blood magic. They don't make distinctions between us. They don't care about who is weak and who is strong. They don't care that the cell is more likely to break you than to force you to obey."

Anders nodded, trying to keep tears from his eyes. Nightmares about the solitary cell woke up some nights, shaking and gasping for breath.

"So you have to be strong, Anders. Stronger than the Templars think you are, and stronger than the demons think you are, too. Don't give in to either."

"How?" he whispered, already feeling defeated.

"You have to find that strength for yourself. It can in your studies, or in your magical abilities, or in your secret hopes and dreams. But it's in you; it has to be. You can't depend on anyone else."

"I can depend on you!" Anders shrank from the look on Karl's face. "...Can't I?"

Karl sighed, eyes dark and weary. "I wish I could say you could, Anders. But you can't rely on other mages, either. If the Templars know you care about someone, they will exploit your relationship and use it as a weapon against you."

Anders frowned. "I just don't know... I'm not strong. Not like you."

"You are strong," Karl said with a gentle smile. "You just haven't realized it yet. You will."

~—~

_Lothering_

"And this is where the knights live in the castle!" Carver declared, clambering up a pile of rocks.

"Yeah! And this is where the stables are for the horses," Bethany added, pointing to the tree branches she had spread on the ground.

Sarai grinned as her siblings showed her the "city" they'd built. "Where do we live?" she asked them.

"I live in the palace, because I'm a lady, and I wear fancy dresses every day," Bethany told her.

"Well, I live in the castle, because I'm a soldier!" Carver shot back.

"Where do Mama and Papa live? Where do I live?"

"You can live in the stables," offered Carver.

"You can live in the palace with me, sister! But not Mama and Papa, because they always tell me to stop doing things. In the palace we can do whatever we want all the time."

Laughing, Sarai stepped over the sticks that marked the palace walls. "Okay, but I want to be a famous hero. Heroes don't have to wear dresses."

~—~

_Kinloch Hold_

Adolescence hit Anders like a rampaging bronto. Unexpectedly, his voice began to break; a lump appeared in his throat; his thin, childish shoulders broadened; and a hint of stubble began to appear on his chin. One day, he looked in the mirror in the dormitory and saw a youth where there had been a child. He began to notice the other apprentices giving him new, strange looks—not cold looks directed to an outsider, but warm looks, almost unbearably warm, and a flush would spread up his neck in response.

All that heat pooled in his groin, forcing him to try to keep his body under control. He had never noticed how _distracting_ others' bodies could be, and they were _everywhere_.

The first time a pretty young apprentice approached him just before bed, her breath whispering maddeningly across his ear, that fire flared up and overwhelmed him. Her name was Petra, and she smiled over her shoulder at him as they tiptoed out of the dormitory. Minutes later, they were pressed into a darkened corner of the Tower, gasping as hands and lips frantically tried to quench the heat.

Petra was Anders' first fling, but the two never got beyond kissing and a little groping in the dark. It would be some time, and several other partners, before Anders had his first true sexual experience.

The Templars, he learned, turned a blind eye to the mages' secretive assignations. No doubt the alternative—preventing mages from working out their frustrations—would have been much worse. Before long, Anders was well-acquainted with all the hidden corners, all the unused corridors, all the unlocked storerooms, where a couple could find a moment of privacy.

~—~

_Lothering_

An afternoon of fighting lessons left Sarai sore and winded, as usual. Liam was an excellent knife fighter, and had pushed Sarai beyond her limits time and again. But there was no denying that the lessons were having an effect. She was already widely acknowledged as the second-best fighter among the youths in Lothering.

She was good. Liam knew it as well as she did. Leaning against a wall at the edge of town to catch her breath, she flashed him a smile.

Smiling back, Liam swaggered over to her. "So tired already?" he asked.

Her natural competitiveness flared, and she pushed back from the wall. "You're sweating, too!"

He leaned closer. Suddenly, it seemed too close. Sarai backed up, hitting the wall behind her with a soft thump. She tried to keep from trembling as he locked eyes with her. "Not as much as you are," he whispered.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Sarai felt paralyzed. Liam let his eyes wander over her, taking in a deep breath of her scent.

"Liam—" she managed to choke out.

Then he leaned in and kissed her.

Another moment of shock froze Sarai; then she pushed him forcefully away. "What are you _doing_?" she cried.

"What does it look like?" he answered with a smirk.

"Ugh, Liam! I'm just a kid. What makes you think I'd be interested in—that?"

"I think you're interested in _me_," he replied. He was still too close, practically pinning her against the wall.

"Well I'm not!" she shot back, pushing him away again and fleeing towards home.

~—~


	10. Chapter 10

~—~

9:20 Dragon

~—~

_Kinloch Hold_

The Templars would label it Anders' third escape attempt, but for him it was the first. The first time he actually planned to escape, instead of simply being overwhelmed in the moment by a flood of emotions, a desperate need for sunshine and fresh air and the feeling of freedom.

He had been in the Tower long enough to have a sense of its daily and weekly rhythms. Supplies were delivered regularly, and empty barrels and sacks were sent back across the lake when they were depleted.

Anders watched the ferry with the edges of his attention, noticing when it came and when it left. The Templar who ran the ferry would usually slip into the kitchen for a quick meal before he returned to his duties. It was a window of opportunity.

In the back of his mind, Anders knew that he might be caught. And he knew, if he was caught, he would be punished. The thought frightened him; but the thought of not trying frightened him more. Maybe that was the strength Karl had told him to find. It didn't feel like strength... but it was all he had at the moment.

After weeks of surreptitious watching and planning, Anders put his escape attempt into action. The ferry arrived early one morning. Supplies were unloaded. The Templar went to find breakfast.

Anders slipped out through the gap in the huge metal doors of the Tower and sprinted toward the dock. Nearly everyone, mages and Templars alike, were in the dining hall at the moment. He wouldn't be missed until morning classes began, and even then, it would take time for the Templars to search the Tower.

He clambered onto the ferry, quickly burying himself under the empty burlap sacks that were piled at one end. He made sure his boots were tucked out of sight, pulled one more sack over his head and shoulders, and laid as still as possible.

Half an hour passed. Then Anders heard the heavy footsteps and clanking armor that were so characteristic of the Templars. The ferry rocked slightly as the Templar stepped on board.

Anders tried not to breathe. His heart was pounding furiously in his ears. With a scraping sound, the ferry pushed off from the dock and began to move.

The trip across the lake felt interminable. The muscles in Anders' back grew tired and threatened to spasm. He willed himself to remain still, clenching his teeth against the pain, breathing through his nose as softly as possible.

Finally, he heard the Templar shout a greeting to someone on the shore, and the ferry bumped to a halt against the dock. The Templar's boots stomped past him and off the ferry.

Anders strained his ears for another agonizing minute. Then the Templar's footsteps grew close again, and Anders realized the problem with his plan.

He had assumed that the Templar would leave the ferry unattended at the dock, just as he did at the Tower. Instead, Anders heard the Templar start to remove the cargo. It would be only moments before he was uncovered.

Instinct took over. Anders leapt up, throwing himself toward the shore. The Templar fell back, startled. Anders caught one glimpse of wide eyes and a mouth hanging open, and then he was running, up the dock, up the hill, towards the trees he could see on the ridge.

The Templar gave a yell, and then suddenly, Anders felt as though all the strength drained out of him. A detached part of his mind remembered hearing the other mages talk about the Templars' special abilities. Abilities to disarm and control mage powers.

He felt winded, like he had taken a hard fall. He struggled to breathe, but the air simply wouldn't go into his lungs. He tried to keep moving up the hill, but his legs gave out under him. Strong hands gripped his shoulders.

The escape attempt, whether it was the first or the third, was a abject failure.

~—~

_Kinloch Hold_

Anders was taken, as he had expected, to Knight-Commander Greagoir. This time, however, he was forced to wait outside the Commander's study until the First Enchanter could also be summoned.

Anders had only seen Irving a few times, and his eyes widened when the First Enchanter approached, eyes serious. He regarded Anders for a moment, then shook his head softly.

The two were let into Greagoir's study. Irving stood to Greagoir's left, while Anders was pushed into the chair in front of the desk.

Greagoir took a deep breath as he looked Anders over. He glanced at Irving, whose face was impassive. "Anders," Greagoir said. "It seems you have not learned anything from the discipline you have already received."

Anders scowled. He had learned something, something important, but it was Karl who had taught him, not the Templars.

"Anders, the Circle exists to protect mages," Irving said firmly. "We are far safer here than we would be otherwise. Many people do not understand our powers, and would seek to harm us if we moved openly through Ferelden."

Greagoir gave a sharp nod. "It is imperative that you remain in the Tower and follow the rules we have set for you. It is for your own good."

The young mage said nothing.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Irving asked him, not unkindly.

Anders kept his mouth shut. There was plenty he wanted to say—starting with _This is horseshit_—but he finally understood what Karl had been trying to tell him. They were going to put him back in the cell, and he was frightened, but more than that, he was angry. Angry because he knew he hadn't done anything wrong, but still they were punishing him and claiming it was for his own good. Angry because the whole dim, heavy Tower wasn't any better than the dark, tiny cell, and he _knew_ somehow that he deserved better than both.

Greagoir must have perceived the glint in Anders' eyes; his own expression hardened. "Very well, then. You leave me no choice. Three weeks in solitary, one meal a day."

Anders wouldn't give them the satisfaction of letting the dread he felt show on his face.

~—~


End file.
